The Vaguely Romantic Lives of Ordinary People
by Catherine Wheels
Summary: Yao can't decide if her regular is a blessing or curse, Anne debates an affair with a French shoe salesman, and Lovina wants her boss to smile for once in his life. Nobody lives in the city for the charm, of course.  -FemChina FemEngland FemRomano. AU-
1. Vodka at 2AM Part One

_A/N: This is going to be three stories in several parts. This story has two parts. Sue me for OOC. Y'all should know I could care less by now..._

_Also. Somebody make me stop watching Sex and the City. This is what happens._

* * *

"Do you work, or do you just drink?" Yao handed the tall man a box of leftover food and began to untie her apron.

He smiled sloppily and shrugged. "Both."

"Yeah? Because all I ever see you do is drink."

"Your English is good."

"Yours isn't so much," Yao said, a slight smile on her face. "Though that might just be because you're always drunk, and I can't imagine that helps your ability to pronounce words. Now get up, get out. It's closing time. I mean it, this time."

The man grinned slightly and nodded. "It is. Yes. Da."

"Da?" She looked at him with some confusion. "What is that?"

"It's yes," he said, grinning. "I forget sometimes to say yes. Yes, da. It slips sometime."

"Sometimes," she corrected him, "It's plural."

He blinked again, tilting his head slightly. "Da?"

"Yeah." Yao tossed her apron over her arm and smiled at him, "Da."

"You like me, da?" the man asked, standing up and swaying slightly. Yao looked him over quickly: tall, blonde, dark blue (almost purple?) eyes, heavy-set, and with an undeniably attractive (albeit a bit drunken) smile. "You're cute, da."

"I'm also kicking you out of my restaurant. It's five in the morning. We have to clean where you've been for an hour past closing, alright? And you have to work. Or sleep. Or go puke in a gutter. Whatever it is you do. Mr. ..?" Yao stopped in mid-sentence, realizing with surprise that she had never even asked the name of her most familiar regular.

"Braginski."

"Braginski?" Yao grinned, extending her hand to him. "Cute. Is that your first or last name?"

"Last."

"So…" Yao looked at him expectantly. "Do you have a first name?"

"Ivan." He took her hand and leaned on her slightly as she pushed him to the door and out into the five AM glow of the early morning. "And you?"

"Wang Yao. Call me Yao."

"Isn't that a boy's name?" Ivan looked back at her.

She shrugged, grinning slightly, "Isn't that rude to ask?"

He shrugged back, now standing in the doorway, his face mostly obscured by shadow. "I'll be back tomorrow."

"You always are." She closed the door, watching him stagger out into dawn, and couldn't help but smile more. There was definitely something interesting about him.

It had been nearly a year since he had been coming in regularly. At first, there was nothing remarkable about him. He had paid for ever dinner with cash, he had eaten alone, sometimes with a woman, and he had always been a drunk. There were plenty of drunks in the city, and in the restaurant.

Yao had been running "Si Quian" for what felt like forever. She couldn't even remember the date of purchase. It must have been sometime in her twenties. That was an eternity ago. She was almost, what… thirty-seven now? Though she would always say twenty-eight, and who would judge? She aged flawlessly.

It was a miracle that the business hadn't failed. But the food was good, the drinks were cheap, and the hours were odd enough to satisfy everyone. Twelve PM until four AM, to make sure the impoverished lunch crowd as well as the broke drunks could come and enjoy. They did. Day after day, night after night. Yao sometimes wondered how she managed, but pushed the thought to the back of her mind.

She fell asleep at six, after a quick cleaning of the restaurant. It wasn't like the patrons expected a clean floor. All they wanted were clean glasses, dishes, and decent food and drinks. That, she could deliver. She was good at giving people what they wanted. But for herself… Not so much.

The next night, he was there again. "You look tired," he said, grinning. It wasn't a malicious grin, or a genuine grin. It was just this… grin. It seemed never to leave his face, just like the scarf that was wrapped around his neck. Yao couldn't see a reason for them, but they were there.

"I am," she replied, taking the empty plate from his table. "I get exhausted leaving the place open one hour later than usual for a ridiculous drunk regular who probably doesn't even have a home."

"Would that be me?" he asked, his eyes wide.

"It might be."

"Well then. Are you saying you think I'm a bum?"

"I'm saying I think you're an alcoholic. And probably a bum. No offence. I've known lots of nice bums in my life."

"Da. So have I. But I have a house."

"Do you?" Yao's eyes opened slightly wider. "Really?"

"I live with my half-sisters in Murray Hill. In a condo? Da. So… It's not a house, but… It's a house." He looked at her with severe confusion and sighed, handing her his empty vodka bottle. "I live in it."

"Murray Hill?" Yao's jaw dropped slightly. "What do you and your sisters do for a living?"

"My sisters are models. And my father was a famous general." The man's grin seemed to fade slightly, and Yao watched with interest as he tried to force it back. "And I write stories sometimes. When I'm sober. When I can sleep and think."

There was no snappy comeback this time. Yao had learned long ago not to insult a man laying his feelings bare before her. "I'm sure they're good story."

"They're all in Russian."

"I'm sure they're good."

"But you couldn't read them."

"Look," Yao sighed in slight annoyance, "I'm giving you a compliment. Can you take it, please?"

"Only if you have dinner at my house this week."

Yao was about to laugh, but stopped. "Are you serious?"

"Da! As heartache."

"Heart attack."

"What?" He stood up, scratching his head and looked at her, smiling slightly again. "What are you talking about?"

"The idiom," Yao replied, starting to head to the kitchen, "It's: serious as a heart attack. Not heart ache. Though that's clever."

"Clever?" He looked at her with genuine adoration. "Really?"

She nodded at him and grinned wryly, "Da."

"Da!" he repeated enthusiastically and wrapped Yao in a tight hug, his head resting on her shoulder. She almost dropped her serving tray, but managed to keep enough composure to stay upright.

"Aiyaa," Yao muttered, annoyed, "Warn me before you assault me, Ivan."

"Sorry," Ivan whispered, suddenly seeming much closer to Yao than she expected. "I didn't mean to. How about tomorrow night, da?"

"Sure. I'll get someone to cover for me. What time?" As she spoke, she could hardly believe that she was agreeing to this. "Where do you want to meet?"

"Here. I'll pick you up at five. It'll be fun!"

"You promise you won't go home and forget? Or…" she stumbled over her words, "Think this is a really bad idea tomorrow morning when you're sober?"

"I'm not that drunk now," he insisted, his breath hot on the back of her neck, making her shiver. "And I want you to come for dinner."

She pulled herself away from him, setting the tray with the empty bottle and plate on the bar counter and shook her head. "Why? Why do you want me to come with you anyway?"

His violet eyes were strangely serious while the rest of his face smiled. "I think you're cute. I want to know you better."

"R-really?" Yao couldn't believe what she was hearing. This wasn't the first genuine man she'd met in the city, but it was the first genuine regular. "Alright. Tomorrow, at six, you pick me up here, and we'll go to your house and eat dinner."

"Good!" He leaned in and kissed her on her cheek before leaving, his silhouette vanishing from the doorframe with a sway.

She stood for a long time, frozen in place by the kiss, feeling young and stupid again. For the first time in a long time, she was excited for something. But the next afternoon, the excitement had turned to dread, and as she paced her apartment above the restaurant, she hated both herself and Ivan for this whole mess. Didn't she have a single thing to wear that wasn't stained with something, or too large, or too flashy? Finally, settling on one of her most formal and traditional outfits, she decided that it would never get better, and she headed downstairs, ten minutes late.

"Took you long enough, sister," Yao's younger adopted brother, Kiku, muttered, catching Yao at the bottom of the stairs. "Your boyfriend scares me."

"He's not my boyfriend," Yao snapped, pulling her coat off the coat-rack and heading into the main restaurant. "He's just a guy."

"A scary guy!" Kiku yelled as Yao stormed off.

Ivan was waiting by the bar, eating rice-crackers out of a small cardboard package that Yao instantly and immediately recognized as one of the common brand she bought for the restaurant. Kiku probably gave them to him to keep him occupied. A closer look at Ivan made Yao hesitate again. He cleaned up well. Surprisingly well, actually. His dull blonde hair was combed back nicely, his bleary eyes looked bright and his skin that usually looked blotchy or sallow by three AM light appeared smooth and pale.

"Um, hi," Yao said, trying to remain calm as she approached him. He smelled faintly of cologne. "You look nice."

"So do you," he replied, his eyes wide, and his smile wide. This, Yao decided, was a nice thing about Ivan. At least she would be able to tell when he meant things. "Want to go?"

"Sure." She smiled hesitantly, and then took his hand in hers. He beamed, and they stepped out into the street.

The townhouse he lived in looked like any number of others. It was made of faded red brick, and a large green tree grew out front. There was a welcome mat at the top of the stairs, and inside there were several large oil paintings.

"Vanya!" a high pitched voice was heard, and Yao looked up at the stairs to see a small, thin woman with long blonde hair in a short black dress. "You're late! The food is going to get cold?"

"If it's going to get cold, why aren't you eating?" Ivan asked, his smile fading quickly.

"Because," the woman stormed down the stairs, and to Yao's horror, had a large knife in her hands. "I don't start dinner without you, you know that!"

"I'm sorry, Natalia," Ivan looked at the ground, visibly shaking. "We're coming to the table now, da."

Quickly, Yao shed her coat and hung it up, not bothering to take her shoes off as she usually would have. The one comfort she had in this strange house was that Ivan was holding her hand tightly as they walked.

At the table, there was an unidentifiable meat, a few potato dishes, and some fruit. There was also, sitting down and looking at her fork, a young woman with breasts that Yao had only assumed existed in exaggerated cartoon drawings.

"Let me introduce you," Ivan said quietly, his voice higher pitched than usual with fear. "Natalia, Yekaterina, this is Yao. Yao…" Ivan pointed first to the small woman, and then to the buxom one. "That is my half sister Natalia, and my other half sister Yekaterina."

"It's very nice to meet you!" Yekaterina said cheerfully, standing up and enthusiastically going to hug Yao, who felt almost smothered. "You're the first girl Ivan's brought home in a while."

"And you'll hopefully be the last," Natalia snapped. "Now sit. Katya and I prepared a meal. Eat it."

"Ignore Natalia," Ivan whispered to Yao as he pulled a chair out for her. "She's… a little crazy."

Dinner was more or less along the same lines. Yekaterina was very pleasant, Ivan was quiet and polite, and Natalia was more hostile than an army before a nuclear war. Yao wasn't entirely sure how to feel. They seemed like nice enough people, but there was something odd about them. They were related by the same father, but none of them had the same mother. They all spoke in Russian to Ivan at times, but neither of them spoke Ukrainian or Belarusian. And oddest of all, the sisters had very high powered careers (complete, they said, with charity donations ever month) and seemed powerful enough as individuals, seemed to love their brother, but had absolutely no interest in stopping him from drinking vodka straight from the bottle.

On the taxi ride back to her restaurant, holding a folder of stories to read on her lap, Yao kept replaying the night's finale. She had helped Ivan up the stairs to his room where he had kissed her and laid down in the bed, drunk and overwhelmed, the way she was used to seeing him.

"I think I love you," he muttered, his eyes not opening.

"I've been on one date with you," she replied, looking at the large painting of a sunflower field that nearly consumed a whole wall. "You're drunk."

"I'm better when I'm drunk."

"No," she went and sat next to him on his bed. His sheets were dark red and stripped with black. He looked deathly pale against the dark colors. "You're drunk when you're drunk."

"I'm always drunk. I always want to be. I'm a better person. I write bad stories, but I'm a better person. You should read my work."

"I thought it was all in Russian."

"Most of it. But… I put some of it to English. It's there." He pointed at a small blue folder on his bedside table. "Read it. Nobody else has. Nobody I talk to anyway."

"Not your sisters?"

"No. My editor, yes. So I talk to him sometimes but not often. I don't publish many times."

"What do you want me to do with them?"

"Read them. Tell me what you think?"

"What if I think I hate them?"

He shrugged, a small smile on his lips. "That's fine. I think I love you, so it doesn't really matter."

"Even if I hate them?" Yao asked again, laughing.

"Da. Hate them if you want."

Yao set the folder back on the bedside table and looked at Ivan curiously. He looked more the way she was used to seeing him now; scarf unwrapped, smile forced and fake, eyes unfocused, and his hair a mess. Slowly, her heart pounding more than it should have for just some guy, she leaned in and kissed him. He tasted like liquor and rabbit (which had been the meat that Yao couldn't properly identify by sight.)

"I don't think I'll hate them," she said quietly.

His face was passive, almost unresponsive as he said, "I hope."

"Get some sleep, alright? You look like you need it." Gently, Yao pushed Ivan's hair out of his face. "I'll see you tomorrow. Try coming earlier than midnight."

"Okay."

"And try coming not completely drunk, alright?"

"Alright."

"Thank you." Again, she kissed him, and this time he kissed her back, his fingers entwining themselves in her hair and forcing her down. They stayed like that for a moment before she stood up and smiled, going back downstairs to get her coat.

Yekaterina was waiting, a nervous smile on her face. "Ms. Wang," she muttered, opening the door, "Natalia is cleaning right now so I thought I might warn you… You shouldn't be dating our brother."

"Why not?"

"It's just…" Yekaterina began nervously fidgeting with her dress buttons. "We love him, and we think he's a very nice boy and… He's not stable. At all."

Yao crossed her arms, annoyed at this woman. Who was she to be giving caution? Did she think Yao couldn't handle herself? "I think he's probably, what's the euphemism, sick? As in has a small to gigantic problem with alcohol. But he doesn't seem unstable."

"Don't give him enough time to find out," Yekaterina said quickly. "He'll hurt you. He's hurt people before. He had this boyfriend, once-"

"Boyfriend?"

"His name was Toris and he was sweet but-"

Yao put her hand up, annoyed. "Boyfriend?"

Yekaterina nodded. "His name was Toris."

"And he was a boy?"

"Well, that's usually why people say boyfriend," Yekaterina mumbled, glaring slightly. "The point is that he started beating the shit out of the poor boy, and Toris ended up in the ICU. We had to spend a lot of money to keep Ivan out of prison."

"I'll keep that in mind," Yao mumbled. "Thanks. Yeah. Keep it in mind." She stepped quickly out the door and hailed a taxi at the corner, holding tightly to the folder of stories.

_When I was young, my father made me walk for miles in the snow. I didn't feel it. I didn't feel anything for a while. When it was done, my sisters wrapped my numb toes in wool socks and kissed my forehead. My father never spoke of what he did, and in time, I learned not to complain. It was simply easier if I walked, my eyes closed, my body numb.'_

Yao sighed deeply, setting the folder down on the bar, looking at Ivan across the restaurant. He was half-asleep at the table, leaning over, another empty bottle by his head. Yao had been reading his stories since she woke up the morning three days after she had gone to Ivan's house, and had been anxiously waiting to talk to him since he came in at nine in the evening and ordered his usual sweet and sour pork with a bottle of vodka. But he had been tired, smiled at her weakly and shook his head. He wasn't in the mood for speaking.

In the three days since Yao had gone to Ivan's house, they had gone out once more, this time to a movie. It was a horror, and neither of them had enjoyed it. But that was the night they had made love for the first time.

"Ivan…" Yao went to sit down by him, looking at him sadly. "Your stories are good. I wish there were more."

"You read them, da?" he asked, trying to smile. "I've missed you."

"Why didn't you come yesterday?"

"Natalia said I needed to go to a party with Katya and meet someone new. I don't want to meet someone new."

Yao paused, leaning in to kiss Ivan's cheek. "I don't want you to, either."

"I stay with you tonight?"

"Sure. If you want." She took his dishes and headed back into the kitchen, cleaning them quickly before returning to the dim restaurant. "Come with me. I'll wake up early to clean."

Ivan followed slowly, his feet dragging behind him and tripping him occasionally on the stairs up to the apartment. Yao laid him down in her bed and kissed him. Clumsily, he kissed her back and held her tightly. They fell asleep still fully clothed, her head on his chest and his arms around her waist.

"Are you going to break up with him anytime soon and save your sanity? And your face?" Kiku asked calmly the next morning, cleaning dishes. "He's really not sane. Did anyone warn you about this?"

"Just because you do background checks on everyone you date doesn't mean you should do them for me, too."

Kiku shrugged, beginning to dry a plate while keeping his eyes passive. "Usually it turns up nothing. When your boyfriend's name brings up newspaper articles and tabloids from Moscow, you have a problem."

"When you are obsessively researching your sister's dates, you have a problem."

"I just want you to find a nice man. One without a criminal record that includes aggravated assault."

"That's all behind him, alright?" Yao mumbled, beginning to mop the floor. "I'm going to be fine. He's been coming here for nearly a year, right? And nothing bad has happened. He's sweet. He's creative. He… he tries. And that's more than most people do."

"He also dates men and then tries to kill them."

"Look, Kiku, I'll talk to him, alright?"

"Fine. But make sure you have something to protect you when you do."

"Alright, fine," Yao rolled her eyes, but took the note to heart.

When the restaurant was clean, and a little while before opening, Yao went back up to her apartment. It was probably best just to confront him and get the whole thing over with. He looked strangely at peace asleep on her small bed, his blonde hair shining in the light that shone through the slat curtains. Tenderly, Yao sat down next to him and touched his face.

"Hmmm…" Ivan opened his eyes slowly, frowning. "Yao?"

"Yeah, honey. How are you?"

"Okay."

"Do you want some Advil or something?"

"Da. Thank you."

Yao stood up and went into the small bathroom, getting a glass of water of somewhat questionable quality from the tap and three small pills. She handed them to Ivan, who took them quickly and smiled. "We need to talk," Yao said quietly. "Or my brother might really yell at me."

"Talk about what?"

"Your ex boyfriend."

Ivan instantly stiffened and bit his lip slightly. "What about him?"

"Well, you're not denying you had one, so that's a good start," Yao sighed, "Just… I don't know. Why. I think that's what I'm supposed to be asking. Why?"

"It was a long time ago. It doesn't matter."

"Yes, but it does."

Ivan looked up at the ceiling, not sure what to say. With a deep sigh, he mumbled, "I loved him the most. But he didn't love me the same."

"So you put him in the ICU?"

"Who told you that?"

"Your sister."

Ivan nodded slightly. "I got angry. I… I used to be angry many times. A lot. That's the right way to say it. A lot. And… I couldn't always be angry by myself, so I hurt him. He didn't deserve it."

"And that's it?"

"Da. That's it." He looked at her with sincerity, trying to smile. Yao knew she shouldn't have melted so quickly, taken him at his word so immediately… But he was so strangely beautiful in the morning light, looking so warm and natural in her bed…

"Alright. That's it. Now, come here, tell me you're over him, and give me a kiss."

He did. Yao closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around him, feeling warm and happy. This was a man who liked her. Sure, maybe he had some dark history, but what man didn't? And did she deserve any better? Her brother might say yes, but then again, her brother was still a virgin with some kind of strange complex about a waiter at a Greek restaurant in Chelsea.

Yao liked waking up next to Ivan, liked having him to see across the restaurant, liked the way he paid attention to her and complimented her on the strangest things: her shoulders, her hips, the way she dried glasses… He was attentive, kind, and romantic, in a strange way.


	2. Vokda at 2AM Part Two

_A/N: Part two of two. With a weird, bad ending. Which is how I roll._

* * *

For the next month or so, they fell into a simple routine. He would write in the morning after waking up next to her, help her sometimes with the restaurant, and in the afternoon, he would begin drinking and talking loudly with the other patrons. By night, he would stumble into her bed and they would make love. It was more than Yao had ever hoped for: someone to be with, to love.

Of course, it was all too good to be true. And one early afternoon, things exploded. There was no better way to put it. Two young men entered the restaurant and sat down hesitantly. One of them, with shoulder length mousy brown hair stood up as he saw Ivan and went hesitantly over to him. "Ivan… Ivan Braginski, right?"

Ivan looked up from is writing and began to nod before falling silent and gaping. "How… When did you get here? How?"

"Katya told me the name of your new girlfriend. We managed to find her restaurant. It's…"

"A very nice place, da," Ivan interrupted, standing up and glancing at Yao desperately.

"Can I help you two?" Yao asked, going to the table.

The other man, this one blonde and glaringly effeminate replied, "Yeah. Like… Dumplings. Whatever it is that you make here."

"We make a lot of things. We're a restaurant," Yao replied flatly. "I can make you dumplings if you want. Pork or chicken?"

"What's, like, better?"

"Well," Yao sighed deeply, "What meat do you like better?"

"Pork," the man with brown hair said quickly. "Thank you. I…" he frowned and then tried to smile, extending his hand to Yao. "I should introduce myself. I'm Toris Lorinaitis. This is Feliks."

The blonde man grinned stupidly, "Totally great to meet you."

"What do you want, Toris?" Ivan asked quietly, looking at the man with something like fear. "Why are you in America?"

"Feliks-"

"I got, this, like, totally awesome freelance job during the fashion season. Like, you know, picking up designs and stuff. And showing some of my own. I design, like, awesomely."

"That's great," Ivan snapped, emotion finally apparent in his voice. "I saw some of your work in Moscow. It wasn't tremendously impressive."

Feliks whirled and stomped over to Ivan instantly, his face becoming strangely dark and his tone sharp. "You, like, write stupid stories. They aren't even, like, that good. So shut your fat face. You know nothing, jerk-ass."

"Feliks!" Toris cried, grabbing his arm and yanking him back. "I'm s-sorry, Ivan. Feliks, go wait outside."

"Fine. But if he touches you, I'm going to get him re-arrested," Feliks said with a shrug and a smile before glaring at Ivan and snarling, "You, like, totally suck at description, by the way. And nobody in the world talks like people in your stuff."

Ivan was dead silent as Feliks left, and then sighed deeply, trying to smile. "Toris. Do you need something?"

"I just…" Toris sat down and frowned. "I wanted to see how you were doing. When I heard you had moved to the states with your sisters…."

"Did you come to flirt with Natalia again?" Ivan grinned wickedly, and Yao felt a quick flash of fear for a reason she couldn't identify.

Toris shook his head quickly and frowned, "I'm with Feliks. You know that. You… We had a discussion about that."

"You mean he beat you up about that," Yao said, annoyed. "Just speak the truth."

Ivan nodded, still smiling his twisted smile. "Da. Speak the truth, Toris. Yao knows what she's doing. I don't believe you've come to America without some kind of ulterior motive."

Toris was silent for a moment, and then sighed deeply. "Ivan. Can't you trust me just once in your life? I swear I didn't come to America to make you miserable. I just came to see how you were doing."

"Oh, really? And how am I doing?"

"Why do you do this to me?" Toris asked, his voice full of frustration. "Can I… Can't I just see you and find out how you're doing? I can't just say hello?"

"You broke up with me," Ivan snapped, his voice oddly deep. "I didn't ever want to see you again, much less talk to you, or try to pretend that your brothers didn't run me out of the country, or try to be friends again, or try to say that I like your stupid boyfriend." By the end of his rant, Ivan was shouting, holding the edge of the chair in a death grip, his knuckles white, sweat beating on his forehead.

Toris began to visibly shake, his eyes wide. "I… I just wanted to see how you were doing. That's all. I- I'm sorry. I'll go."

"Thank you," Ivan sighed deeply, sitting down again and taking a few long breaths. "Just go."

"I'll show you out," Yao said quickly, taking Toris's hand and leading him to the back door, looking over her shoulder at Ivan, who had slumped on the table. "What were you thinking?" she asked, taking Toris into the alley.

Toris shook his head. "I… I really did just want to see how he was doing."

"I'm sure you did," Yao looked at Toris with pity and curiosity. "I… I have a question or two for you."

"What do you mean?"

"Him. What's going on with him? It's just…" Yao sighed and shook her head, running her fingers through her hair. "I'll admit. I don't really know that much about him. He writes, he's sweet… But he's got weird sisters and his stories are all… kind of dark. I have yet to read one with a happy ending."

Toris laughed nervously. "That's Russian literature for you."

"That's a lie. I've read Crime and Punishment. It has a happy ending."

"That's… That's different." Toris sighed deeply and looked down the alley, probably looking for Feliks. "Ivan is sweet, yes, but… He's sick. That's all. He gets angry, and he gets violent. Don't… Just don't make him angry."

"How long were you two together?"

"Three or four years. I was a servant for his father for a while. And then his father fell out of favor with the new government and… Things just went badly, but…" Toris's face changed dramatically when he trailed off and smiled genuinely for the first time while talking about Ivan. "When he's good, he's very good, isn't he?"

"Yeah," Yao leaned against the wall, "He is."

"I wish you happiness," Toris said quietly, reaching out to shake Yao's hand. "And… Take care of him. He needs help that his sisters just won't give him."

"Obviously," Yao said quietly, "Sure. And good luck with your friend. He seems like a handful."

"Feliks? He's alright. He's rich, and artistic, and… disorganized. So I still have a job. And everything will turn out alright, I guess."

"Isn't it nice to think so?" Yao sighed, shaking her head again and going back into the restaurant where she found Ivan, sitting perfectly still, staring at the dirty window, crying soundlessly. Yao wrapped her arms around him and they stood silent together for a while before she poured him a shot of vodka, and they pretended that nothing had happened for a while.

Of course, playing pretend could only last for so long.

"Are you alright?" Yao asked one morning, about three days later. It was the early morning, and Ivan was crying again. Over the time that Toris had shown up and left, Ivan's disposition had changed dramatically: he no longer wrote, and he was drunk nearly every hour he was awake. Knowing that this one man had had such an effect on her lover both fascinated and annoyed (mostly annoyed) Yao.

Ivan nodded weakly. "It's nothing."

"Don't lie to me," Yao sighed. "You're upset about Toris. Let's just talk about this."

"I don't want to talk about this."

"Why not?"

"Because I just don't," Ivan snapped, rolling over and putting a pillow over his head. "I just don't."

"That's not an excuse."

"It's the truth."

"Well, I don't like the truth. Talk to me about him."

"What hell do you want to know about him?"

"The hell, Ivan, if you're going to ask me..." Yao sighed deeply, "Never mind. Just… You said he meant nothing and now you're moping around like a schoolgirl who just got dumped by a boy she'd been dating for a week."

"Shut up," Ivan snarling, sitting up and glaring now, his lips curled like an animal. "Don't insult me."

Yao glared back, crossing her arms. "I'm sorry, but it's true."

"I thought you didn't like the truth."

"When it's useful to me, I do."

"Bitch."

"What?"

Ivan shrugged, smiling slightly in the way children did when they knew they were being disobedient. "That's what I said, da. I'm going back to bed now."

"Don't you dare," Yao sprang over to him and grabbed his shirt sleeve, frowning deeply. "We're going to talk about him, because you clearly have issues."

When the back of Ivan's hand connected with Yao's face, she wasn't initially aware of what had happened, only that her head had snapped to the side, and everything was hot and tingling.

"I said don't insult me," Ivan said quietly, laying back down against the pillows and closing his eyes, his face strangely handsome again, as though he had never been angry.

"What…" Yao finally managed, touching her face. "What was that?"

"I told you not to insult me. You were touching me. I was angry." He opened his eyes and looked at her pathetically, "I didn't mean to."

"What about…."

"Let's not talk about him again, okay?" Ivan sat up and wrapped Yao in a tight hug, dragging her closer to him and into the bed. "Let's just not." He kissed her on her cheek, and the tingling grew worse. It would stay with her, at least in memory, for a long time. Or, rather, until the next week, when Ivan didn't show up once, but the bad news did.

There had been some speculation amongst the workers about Ivan's strange disappearance. Perhaps he'd been hit by a car? Fallen down a manhole? Been kidnapped into white slavery? Joined AA? The most popular theory was that he was secretly an ex-KBG agent who had finally been terminated. None of these theories settled well with Yao, of course, and on a Tuesday, a week and two days after Ivan had vanished entirely, bad news came in the form of the knowledge of alcohol poisoning and romantic complications, via Toris Lorinaitis.

"What do you mean you're back together with him?" Yao asked incredulously, slamming her tea cup down. "How is that possible?"

Toris shrugged slightly, "I don't know why nobody told you he was in the hospital, but… That's when we got back together. Feliks is pissed at me, but I thought you should know. That's why he's not coming back…"

Yao forced herself not to scream and nodded. "Alright. Fine. Can you tell him that he's an asshole who deserved to almost die in a ditch?"

"Um… I can pass the message along, sure."

"Great. And one more thing."

"Yes?"

Yao stood up, taking the plates. "He's never allowed to come in here and keep us open past hours ever again. Tell him that."

Toris nodded, standing up and going to the door, "Alright."

When he let, Yao dropped the dishes and let them break, hanging her head and letting herself get teary, though she didn't know why. It had just occurred to her that she still had his folder of English stories.

TWO MONTHS LATER

Winter descended quickly and heavily on the city like an unwanted blanket. The windows frosted up, the streets turned hazardously icy, and oversized coats came quickly back into fashion. Yao hated winter. She hated feeling trapped and exhausted, not having the sun, and not having the sidewalk look any different than the lawns.

Business continued like usual. Better, perhaps. Customers were created out of people walking home from work, avoiding the cold, and from people wanting a stiff drink on a frozen day. It didn't help Yao feel any better about the miserable weather, or the inevitable reunion that she hadn't been expecting.

Her back was turned when Ivan walked into the restaurant. It was Kiku who spoke first, "Can I help you, sir? Perhaps re-escort you to the door?"

"If I wanted to find the door, I'd turn around. Are you implying that if I was to do that, I wouldn't find a door? Is you escorting me to the door a need?"

"Necessity," Yao corrected without thinking, taking a deep breath and turning around to face Ivan with a grim smile that instantly melted into an expression of surprise.

Ivan was thinner, his hair shorter, his eyes clearer, and his scarf finally washed. "Well, Yao? Will the door go away?"

"No. It'll still be there," Yao mumbled stupidly. "Hi."

"Hi. It's been a long time." Ivan unwrapped his scarf and smiled. "How are you? Can I get a table?"

"Kiku," Yao said quietly, "I'm taking a thirty minute break. You and the rest of them… watch the fort. Keep people happy." She followed Ivan to a table and Kiku brought them water. For a long while, there was an uncomfortable silence for a moment before Yao asked quietly, "How are you and Toris?"

"Not together."

Yao's eyes widened, "What? Really?"

"Da. Really. We went back to Moscow for a while and…I came back to see how you were. I'm staying in America. For truth, this time."

"For real. That's how you say it."

"I'm staying in America for real," Ivan laughed quietly, taking a drink of water and sighed slightly. "Yao… Am I still banned from your restaurant?"

"No. But it looks like it's done you good… You lost weight."

Ivan laughed again, shaking his head. "I hate the food back home. I just don't eat. It's not healthy. So I'd rather be here and be fat and eat something that I like."

Yao laughed slightly and nodded. "Fine. You're back in the restaurant under one condition."

"What's that?"

"Tell me what happened between you two, and promise me you'll never think dating me is a good idea ever again."

Ivan nodded slowly, taking a long drink of water. "I was upset after what I did to you. Somehow, I ended up in the hospital, I think my sisters took me. Toris found me outside of my house. They say I had been shouting his name and destroying flower pots… Either way, he came to me in the hospital, and we went back home together. It didn't work. Please don't ask why but… He's with Feliks again, which is fine. Feliks is good to him. I came back, because here is where I need to be. With you."

Yao stared at him. He didn't appear to be making a joke, though it could have been a good elaborate one. "Ivan. I said don't ever date me again."

"I know. But even… without you as a romance, I wanted to be with you. Here." He looked around the restaurant and smiled. "Someplace familiar. Warm. All it needs is sunflowers."

"You know?" Yao looked at the walls and smiled slightly, "Alright. I think that can be done."

And as the snow fell gently outside, Yao took a deep breath. Someone found her restaurant familiar, and had returned to it. As she looked at Ivan, she knew that he was all she wanted. Not as a lover, but as a customer. Someone so loyal they came back from across the world. That, Yao realized as she exhaled, was what made this city so worthwhile: the loyalty she found in the people that lived in it. That was how she managed.

* * *

_A/N: Up next... the Adventures of France and FemEngland and an Obnoxious Minor Character/Plot Device Named America._


	3. Retail Therapy Part One

_A/N: Short first chapter. This one, I feel, is most true to character. Except for America, as we will see later. I dunno. Sex and the City. What can I say. I love that show. _

_Also, I really wanted to keep Arthur's name as Arthur, but I didn't feel it was appropriate. I like to keep male names the same, though, such as when I have FemChina, her name is always Yao. Masculine names are given to girls! I happen to have a highly masculine name. It confuses people sending me junk mail._

_But I hope Anne works for you all._

* * *

Anne Kirkland would not admit that she had a problem. Several, really, but some she was more ready to talk about than others. For example, the tumultuous relationship she shared with her boyfriend, Alfred Jones (did Americans really have such little imagination? Alfred F. Jones?) was fair game. She would tell any stranger on the street that the sex was fantastic, but his violent cursing and insults were not preferable, and why the fuck did he want a woman who could cook anyway? If that was really what his heart longed for, he could go and find another American. Anne was a British kept woman. That meant that she didn't have to make her stupid American boyfriend eggs on Sunday, and he could go to church and keep his fat mouth shut.

However, some things were not as easily mentioned. Her "nearly crippling addiction" to shoe shopping was not something she liked to bring up in public unless the shoes she had just purchased were simply smashing. Today, though, she was not shopping because she needed to color coordinate or be particularly fabulous. She was shopping because Alfred hated it. And occasionally, she liked doing things that pissed Alfred off.

Amongst the things that Anne was doing to piss Alfred off was trying to get into the pants of Frances Bonnefoy, one of the workers at Bottega Veneta. What Anne didn't realize, of course, was that she was not the only person with things she didn't say out loud.

"I think the leather works better with this outfit, don't you?" Anne asked loudly, pointing at a pair of sandals with high straps. "I mean, red is just so tacky."

Frances shrugged, grinning his typical suave grin. "That entirely depends on what you're going for. If you want something stunning, go with red. But if you want something, oui, that matches, go with the leather."

"Do you use that ridiculous accent for show, or is it really part of you?"

"My accent is simply a part of me. It would be impossible to cultivate an accent so refined by practice. It must be natural," Francis grinned at her, lifting an eyebrow slightly. "The same could be asked of you, Madame."

"Oh, please," Anne rolled her eyes, "I'm not Madame yet. I'm Mademoiselle, you wanker."

Frances laughed loudly, "You've talked to me four times and I'm a wanker?"

Anne set her face in determination (a thing that Alfred went wild over, telling her how cute it was an completely undermining her intention) and nodded. "Yes. By telling me I look older than I am."

"And how old are you?"

"Twenty-five."

"Very well then. Mademoiselle. I advise you to buy the red shoes."

"Would you buy them?"

"I would."

"Ugh," Anne rolled her eyes, "What a stupid question of me to ask. You're wearing red pants. Of course you would buy red shoes. The more important question is this. Would you buy me dinner?"

Frances was silent for a moment, his grin faltering slightly. "Are you being serious?"

"As the plague."

"Have you even considered the possibility that I could be broke?"

"I'm buying an eight hundred dollar pair of shoes. Don't pretend this place doesn't give you a paycheck."

"Alright, touché. However…" Frances paused and then leaned in, grinning again, "What if I'm secretly a drug addict. Or spend all of my money on internet pornography. What if I have a hundred cats?"

Anne shrugged, "That doesn't mean you can't buy me dinner. That just means you're a freak."

"I'm insulted!" Frances exclaimed melodramatically, "I buy only the highest quality heroin, pornography, and cats."

"But will you buy me a high quality dinner?"

"Why not?"

And with that, the date, and the ensuing disaster, was set.


	4. Retail Therapy Part Two

_A/N: Actually, this is a really short story, I'm realizing. The SpaMano one is going to be short, too._

_Sorry this took so long! _

_And sorry the chapter are so short, I think. Eh. Not really. I hate reading long stuff online. _

_One more chapter in this story._

* * *

"Tell me about him."

"He's tall, blonde, and American."

"Which kind of American?"

Anne laughed, leaning in and raising her eyebrow mockingly. "There are kinds of Americans?"

Frances nodded sincerely. "There's the worthless, attractive type, and the fat rich type."

"He's the fat rich type. Without too much fat. He's…" Anne sighed, "He's smart, eternally optimistic, and has a great career. And a nice car."

"And he's not too fat?"

"No! I wouldn't date the wanker if he crushed me."

"I can't believe they still make American's like that. I thought it was a discontinued model circa 1956."

"And I thought morally ambiguous Frenchmen were an outdated model circa… forever. Since film made them popular."

"That would be around… 1910?" Frances grinned, sipping his wine. "And may I remind you that I am not the only one with morals that may be more or less gray in nature?"

It was late into the dinner, and Anne knew they were going to go home together. She had already ignored two calls from Alfred, so why not finish the deal? In Anne's experience, dinner was sex. If she could convince a man to spend money on her, it would be no problem convincing him to sleep with her.

By the time that Anne's back was pressed against the wall next to the door of Frances' apartment, she had found out three important things about him.

1. He was very much French. Not that there was any question, but he had answered it. Not French-Canadian, but Parisian.

2. He had a tendency to bisexuality. It varied depending on who was asking.

3. He was a fantastic kisser with no morals.

As Anne moaned slightly, Frances led her through the door of his flat and tossed her gently onto the bed, making sure to turn the bedside photo of a young man with a face that resembled his around. No fling needed to see that, especially not this British woman who was batting her eyelashes at him like a Las Vegas prostitute fresh on the job.

Just as Anne had found out three important things about Frances, he had three mental notes about her.

1. She had a boyfriend, and no qualms about telling him. Said boyfriend must be incredibly tolerant.

2. She was very good at covering up what Frances suspected was cripplingly low self esteem.

3. She expected breakfast in the morning.

They made love in the usual style, with no flowers or fluff. And when they were done, Anne rolled over onto her side and fell promptly asleep, snoring slightly. Frances just laughed and wondered if she really would be there the next morning.


	5. Retail Therapy Part Three

_A/N: Final chapter. Yep._

_Next chapter will be Spain/Romano (a)_

"I can't believe you're really still here," Frances laughed, "And I can't believe you like crepes."

"Why the hell wouldn't I like crepes?" Anne asked incredulously, staring at him. Her hair was laying haphazardly on her head, sticking up at odd angles, and her previous night's dress was lay rumpled on her body. "They're the best bloody thing to happen since coffee."

"Are you going back to your boyfriend today?"

"Oh. At some point. Are you going back to yours?"

"What?" Frances laughed, leaning against the counter and turning the stovetop off. "I believe that my sleeping with you should have ruled out that I have a current boyfriend."

"Who's the boy in the picture by your bed?"

Frances paused for a moment, "My son."

"Your what?" Anne exclaimed, shocked, her eyes wide. "Since when?"

"Since fifteen years ago."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty five. He lives in Montreal. He's a sweet kid. He's at boarding school. Very smart," Frances smiled wistfully and shrugged. "He'll end up doing good things. How late are you staying?"

Anne stared at Frances, realizing suddenly that this was a real man, with a real life, and people who depended on him. No wonder the apartment was so small. "I'm going as soon as I'm done," Anne sighed, finishing her crepe and pulling her high-heels on at the door, grabbing her coat. "This was fun, though, wasn't it?"

Frances nodded, "It was. I hope you like those shoes. They look good on you."

Anne grinned and kissed his cheek as she went to the door, "They're not the worst thing I've ever bought."

The taxi ride back to her apartment was strangely lonely. This wasn't the first time she had slept with a man on a whim, but it was the first time she had really thought about the personal lives of the men she was with. Somewhere in the world, she knew, there was a woman who had loved (or at least slept with without protection) Frances. And from that love, there was a son in a boarding school in Canada. It seemed so… damn depressing all of a sudden.

"Hey babe, where you been?" Alfred greeted her at the door, a glass of bourbon in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Typical. "You look like sex. Like you've been having it. Without me."

"And what if I have?"

"That makes you a bitch."

"Does it?" Anne took her shoes off and took the glass out of his hand, drinking it herself, taking a moment to get past the burn. "Well, you drove me into the arms of another man. So what does that make you?"

"Pathetic."

"Exactly. But…" Anne examined her boyfriend. His stupid grin, his messy hair, his crooked glasses and his wrinkled suit… He, also, had a life. How many women was he having affairs with? Did they have separate lives? Nobody slept around professionally… Well, sure, some of them did, but not the kind that Alfred would be having. "It doesn't mean I don't love you."

"So you still love me?"

"Of course I do, babe. I just wanted new shoes."

"Hell. I could have bought you new shoes."

"I know. You can buy me shoes next time."

"You promise?"

"Yes. I promise."

"Great. Now, come here." He pulled her close and kissed her, tossing his cigarette into the kitchen sink.

As they made love, Anne couldn't help but let her mind wander. So she would let Alfred buy her shoes. And now French shoe salesmen were out of the question. However… Indian waiters and Estonian IT Tech Guys were probably not. And she couldn't help but wonder what sort of men worked at the high end dress shops?


End file.
